


Thinkin' Thinkin' Thinkin'

by cowboykylux



Series: Pale x Reader Vignettes [37]
Category: Burn This - Wilson
Genre: Banter, But Don't Ever Tell Him That lol, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Pale Is Secretly A Softie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:34:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25630648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboykylux/pseuds/cowboykylux
Summary: A short musing on Pale being a softie, thinking about how much he loves you.
Relationships: Pale (Burn This)/Reader, Pale (Burn This)/You
Series: Pale x Reader Vignettes [37]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1389784
Kudos: 13





	Thinkin' Thinkin' Thinkin'

“What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?” You ask one evening, when it’s just the two of you alone in the big city.

You’re tucked up against Pale’s chest in bed after a round (or two or three) of vigorous fucking, sex that exhausted you, left you ready for sleep, bones made of jello. Pale’s smoking his cigarette, one arm tucked up under his head, and he’s looking at you with softness in his eyes. You can see thoughts swimming and swimming and you crane your neck to press a kiss to the underside of his chin, the only spot you can really reach.

“Thinkin’ about you, that’s all.” Pale answers after a moment, exhaling smoke through his nose.

“You think about me?” You ask, watching the wisps of grey turn blue as the light of the moon cuts through the haze.

“Don’t be a brat, you know I do.” Pale says, pinching your cheek and giving your face a little shake in that way he did when he was being fond of you.

“What sorta things do you think about?” You ask, drawing patterns, tracing shapes into the strong planes of his chest, through the cooling sweat, up to where his gold chain rests, glints soft and warm.

“Just how good you are. All the fuckin’ time.” He replies, sticking his cigarette between his teeth so he can trace patterns on your face, can follow the curve of your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose. His thumb smooths across your bottom lip and you blush, and he sighs happily when he says, “Your pretty smile.”

“You think I’m pretty?” You ask, a quiet playfulness in the way you raise an eyebrow.

Pale huffs, rolls his eyes, pinches your nose your cheek.

“Oh she’s vain is she? Of course I think you’re pretty. Don’t go givin’ me that fuckin’ face – alright that’s it, come here.” He groans, stubs out the cigarette and captures your face with both his hands, pulls you up the bed enough to kiss him, straddle him, and you know when he’s all hard edges and harder kisses, that you’re in for another round. 

Or two.

Or three.


End file.
